The Last Man mr-13

by Vince Flynn

  The assassin let his weapon hang from his neck, raising both hands to shoulder height, his palms out. When he was twenty feet away, he kept moving and said, “I need to speak to Mitch.” The familiarity in his voice seemed to relax the two watchdogs a bit. The assassin closed the distance to within six feet and then stopped. He looked to his right and then to his left. One of the men whom he had seen earlier was talking on a cell phone and began yelling and motioning at the police officers to get out of the truck. A second truck with six more men raced to a stop behind the first. The assassin resisted the urge to raise his rifle and shoot the spotter with the cell phone. Instead, he turned to the two big Americans and in near flawless English said, “I think you guys better call for some backup.”

  Chapter 16

  The sparse waiting area held four people, a dog, three cats, and a bird. The bird was in a cage behind the receptionist’s counter as well as the two cats that were sleeping in wicker baskets. A little boy not more than eight held the leash of a small pooch while his mother sat protectively next to him. An elderly man with a cigarette dangling from his mouth cradled a sickly-looking black cat that was missing large clumps of hair. The old man looked depressed. Neither adult made eye contact, but the little boy gave Rapp a friendly smile. Rapp returned the gesture with a nod of thanks. Most of the people in Kabul tried to ignore foreigners, and Rapp didn’t blame them one bit. Their country had been at near constant war for thirty years. There were others who stared you down as if they wanted to kill you, and a small minority who would smile and maybe even say hello.

  Rapp approached the blue Formica reception desk. A nice young woman in a black hijab looked up at him and asked in English, “How may I help you?”

  “Do I look that American?” Rapp asked, trying to seem offended.

  “No, but he does.” She pointed over Rapp’s shoulder at Coleman. 118 Vince FLy nn

  Rapp turned around and looked at his friend’s blond hair and blue eyes. Coleman’s Northern European ethnicity made it nearly impossible for him to blend in on ops like this. “Yeah,” Rapp said, “he works for the United Nations. I think he’s Swedish or something like that. I can’t understand a thing he says. At any rate, we were hoping to speak with Dr. Amin.”

  “I’m sorry, but he’s at the university right now.”

  “Do you expect him back this afternoon?”

  “Normally not, but if we’re busy he stops by on his way home. May ask what you need to discuss with him?”

  Rapp hesitated. He was not used to sharing information, but this woman seemed nice enough, and she might be able to save him a step. “It’s a rather important matter.” Rapp retrieved his Joe Cox credentials emblazoned in gold with the seal of the United States and the all-important, somewhat vague words Federal Officer, raised and embossed. “We’re trying to track down a missing person. We were told that he brought his dog to your clinic about a month ago. He was an American and his dog was a Rottweiler. Do you remember anyone like that?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I’m only here part-time. Do you have a name?”

  Rickman had more than a few aliases as well. Rapp had no idea if he had used one, so he started with Rickman’s real name. The receptionist spun her chair around and crab-walked the chair over to a row of file cabinets. Rapp looked over his shoulder to find Coleman with his arms folded across his chest and shaking his head.

  “Swedish? What in the hell is wrong with you?”

  Rapp started to laugh, and then his eyes caught something beyond the glass doors. His left hand slid between the folds of his jacket and around the grip of his 9mm Glock. The change in Rapp’s demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by Coleman, who did a casual 180 degree turn to see what was going on. Rapp could scarcely believe his eyes. It was as if a ghost had walked out of his not-so-distant past. Nearly four years ago, to be exact. He watched the man walk past Reavers and Maslick, stopping briefly to point at something down the street. In Rapp’s mind it was a move to distract them, but Rapp could not be distracted. Not by this man. He drew his gun and lined the sights up on the head of the man who had killed his wife.

  The receptionist said something, but Rapp didn’t hear her. He was too intent on the man coming through the door. The only thing that prevented Rapp from shooting him on the spot was that he had his hands in the air in what seemed to be a genuine posture of surrender.

  Coleman said, “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Yes.”

  One of the glass doors opened and the assassin stepped slowly into the lobby. He glanced at Coleman and then focused on Rapp. “We need to talk and we must do it quickly.”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”

  Louie Gould kept his hands in the air and gave a slight shrug. “I can give you several, but since time is of the essence, let’s start with the fact that I didn’t shoot you in the head when you got out of your truck a minute ago. Even more important, I think you’re going to need my help in the very near future. Possibly the next thirty seconds.”

  Despite the anger that was coursing through his veins, Rapp’s pistol was extremely steady. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  Gould took a quick look around the waiting room. He would have preferred to have this discussion in a more intimate setting, but there was no time for that, so before he got into the details he looked at Rapp’s blond-haired friend and said, “I told your guys outside that they should call for backup but I don’t think they took my advice. Trust me, you are going to want to make that call and do it quickly.” The assassin then said to Rapp, “I still take the occasional contract.”

  Rapp shook his head. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “I know,” he said sheepishly, “but we needed money and I have been very selective.” He shook his head, showing the first sign of frus 12 0 Vince FLy nn tration. “We can discuss this all later. The important thing is that I took a contract from an anonymous employer. My instructions were to fly into Kabul yesterday. About ninety minutes ago I received instructions to come to an office building on this street. When I arrived, this rifle was waiting for me along with a photograph of my target.” Gould pointed at Rapp. “You.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “I wish I was, but that’s not the real problem.” Gould kept his hands up while he took a step back to see if he could see what was going on at the one end of the block. As he did so, one of Rapp’s men came through the door.

  It was Maslick. “There’s something going on out here. Both ends of the street are blocked by the police and they’ve got about ten guys at each end that look like they’re planning some kind of an assault.”

  Gould confirmed with his own eyes what the man had said. “They’re here to kill you. And me, too, I suppose.”

  A single rifle shot cracked the relative calm of the afternoon. The four men in the lobby were all combat veterans and none of them flinched. They all looked at Reavers, who was standing on the sidewalk. Before any of them could react, a fusillade of bullets rang out. The glass doors shattered and when they looked up, Reavers was falling to the ground.

  Coleman shouted above the roar of the rifle shots, “Suppressive fire? I’ll grab him.”

  Rapp moved to his left and pushed his back against the wall while Maslick moved to his right and did the same. Both men began squeezing off well-aimed shots at the officers at the opposite end of the street. Coleman holstered his gun, yanked open the door, and grabbed Reavers by the tactical vest. The big man didn’t budge on the first try so Coleman put all of his muscle into it. Bullets were zipping past his head in both directions. He backpedaled into the reception area and immediately noticed the streak of red blood on the white tile floor. Out of the line of direct fire he knelt and tried to find where he’d been shot. His hands slid over Reavers’s body, checking for blood. Within seconds he found two fatal wounds. The first was in his hairline on the top right side of his head and the second was in the groin. Reavers’s brain was go
ne, but his heart was still pumping, and from the looks of the pool of blood on the floor, his femoral artery had been hit.

  In battle, the passage of time slowed for Coleman. In a brief instant he acknowledged that his friend was gone and that now was not the time to deal with it. That would come later-anger, frustration, genuine sadness, and some laughs, to be sure, but right now was about survival.

  “Reavers is dead,” Coleman announced above the roar of fire. He grabbed his friend’s M-4 rifle and started stuffing his extra magazines into his vest and cargo pockets.

  Rapp stole a quick glance at Reavers’s lifeless body, and then he noticed the frightened look on the little boy’s face. He yelled to Coleman. “Get these people back into one of the exam rooms!”

  Gould showed up at Rapp’s side and dropped to one knee. He began firing well-aimed single shots. In less than five seconds he counted three kills with as many shots. “We need to put someone on the roof.” After a couple more shots he yelled, “And you might want to see if you can get someone to come help us!”

  “Scott,” Rapp barked without taking his eyes off the street, “call Mike and tell him what we’re up against. Tell him we need a Quick Reaction Force ASAP or we’re all dead.” Rapp stepped back, ejected an empty magazine, and popped in a fresh one. Yelling back to Coleman he added, “A gunship would be nice!” Rapp popped off a couple of rounds and saw a man go down. Then, looking down at Gould, he said, “Get up on the roof and see what you can do. I’ll join you as soon as I can. How much ammo do you have?”

  Gould shook his head. “Just this one thirty-round magazine, and then I’m down to my pistol.”

  Rapp noted the make and model of the pistol in Gould’s vest. “At these distances I bet you’re pretty good with that thing.”

  Gould nodded. “The best.”

  “We’ll see about that. Grab one extra magazine for the M-4 from the blond guy, and then get your ass up on the roof before we’re all dead.”

  Chapter 17

  Coleman had stashed the old man, the mother and son, their animals, and the receptionist in one of the exam rooms down the hall. Rapp assumed there were some nurses and at least one vet somewhere in the building, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about their safety other than keep the local police at bay until the cavalry arrived. As best he could tell, three more pickups filled with combat-clad cops had arrived. It begged the question, could that many Kabul police officers be corrupt?

  The front entrance to the clinic was a tangled mess of broken glass and chipped stone. The door, and the two side windows, were completely blown out and the metal frame was twisted and punctured from bullet strikes. Rapp was about five feet from the edge with his back pressed against the wall. Maslick was standing directly across from him. They were alternating darting out and taking a few shots to keep the cops from rushing the door. So far they were succeeding, but just barely. Rapp watched Maslick eject a spent magazine and insert a fresh one. Their advantage in this fight was their ability to hit targets with consistent, frightening accuracy. Coleman, Maslick, and Rapp had all fired thousands of practice rounds a month with pistols, carbines, and long rifles. Rapp had no idea how much Gould practiced, but his fee was likely a good predictor of his ability. Even though they were outgunned, this was all going to come down to ammunition.

  Rapp knew a little about how these men were selected and trained. Most of them were simply trying to make a living and were extremely brave, as the Taliban often targeted them and their families. He found the idea that they were all corrupt to be a bit of a stretch. It was more plausible that it was someone in their chain of command who was corrupt. Rapp thought of Commander Zahir down in Jalalabad. Until recently the man had been a terrorist and had a bounty on his head, courtesy of the U.S. government. Not only was the bounty gone, but the man was now on our payroll. How many assholes like Zahir were now wearing the uniform of the Afghan Police? Innocent or not, these cops were trying to kill Rapp and his men, so he was left with no alternative if he wanted to survive.

  A fresh barrage of bullets slammed into the front wall of the building, peppering Rapp with tiny pebbles. He darted out, fired two wellaimed shots, and ducked back into the lobby as a dozen-plus bullets raked the spot where he’d been standing less than a second ago. Rapp shook his head with anger. That had been closer than he would have liked. He looked across at Maslick again and noticed a splotch of blood on his right shoulder. This position was quickly becoming too hot to defend. Sooner or later one of them was going to pop out and take a bullet in the head. Rapp made a snap decision and ordered Maslick to the roof.

  Maslick tried to argue, but Rapp made it clear there was no time for debate. As Rapp began his retreat from the lobby he passed Reavers’s body. He noted the Sig P226 pistol still in the man’s thigh holster. Kneeling, Rapp grabbed the gun and the three spare magazines. The anger came boiling to the surface and Rapp said to himself, “I swear to God I’m going to kill these idiots who came up with this reintegration crap.” The image of Sickles popped into Rapp’s mind and it suddenly occurred to Rapp that Sickles had probably recruited the man who was now trying to kill him. Rapp popped in his earpiece and looked up Sickles’s mobile number. He tapped the number and listened as began to ring. Rapp left the lobby and entered the hallway that bisected the building. Down at the far end Coleman was stacking and shoving equipment against a side exit.

  Taking up position against the doorframe so he could cover the front entrance, Rapp began to wonder if the wall he was behind was thick enough to stop a. 223 round. The answer was likely no, so as Darren Sickles’ voice came on the line, Rapp walked back into the lobby. “Hey, dickhead,” Rapp barked above the roar of gunfire, “did Mike tell you the shitstorm we’re in?”

  Rapp holstered his gun, stepped behind the reception desk, and began yanking up on the heavy Formica countertop.

  “He just told me. I have no.”

  “Shut up and listen to me.” Rapp gave the top one more shove and it broke free. “This is your fault. You recruited these scumbags, and you were dumb enough to think you could trust them.” Rapp grabbed the top and lugged it back into the hallway. “You are going to get on the fucking phone, and you are going to call every last one of them, and you are going to tell them that I’m going to place a million-dollar bounty on every one of their fucking heads, and I’m going to be the one collecting it.”

  Rapp tossed the heavy top up against the doorframe and leaned against it. He drew his weapon again, feeling a lot better about his position, but not so good about Sickles, who was yammering about how he didn’t understand any of this. That it simply didn’t make sense. With more important things to do than listen to Sickles’s senseless speculation, Rapp yelled, “Darren, I don’t give a shit what you think! Just get on the damn phone and make it clear to these assholes that I’m going to hunt them down and kill them.” Rapp was tempted to tell Sickles that he was going to kill him as well, but it was likely to be an extremely counterproductive threat, so he bit his tongue and hung up. 12 6 Vince FLy nn

  Rapp knew what their next move would be, and it likely wouldn’t take long. The U.S. had outfitted the Afghan Police with takedown gear that included battering rams, breaching shotguns, ribbon charges, and bulletproof riot shields. It was the bulletproof riot shields that worried Rapp the most. All a thoughtful commander needed to do was grab a couple of shields and do the old Roman tortoise. The first man in the line would hold the shield directly in front of him and the second man would hold the shield above them, protecting them from the men on the roof. They’d rush the front door with one or two lines of men. If that happened, Rapp knew they would overpower him and his little 9mm pistol in a matter of seconds. The thought of dying like that got Rapp thinking, and he yelled down the hall, “Scott?”

  Coleman shoved a big metal exam table against his pile and turned to look at Rapp. “What?”

  “You come across any oxygen tanks?”

  “Yeah.” Coleman didn’t have to be told what t
o do. He ducked into one of the rooms and came out with two green tanks. He dragged them down the hall by the necks and dropped them at Rapp’s feet.

  Rapp kept his eyes and his pistol on the door and asked, “Any more?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Put ’em in front of your pile down there and get your ass up on the roof.”

  Coleman shook his head. “You get up on the roof. I’ve got this handled.”

  “Stop wasting time. Drop the tanks down there and get moving. They’re probably running low on ammunition.”

  Coleman reluctantly dropped two more tanks by the side door and then stopped to offer Rapp Reavers’s M-4 rifle.

  “Nope… no need for that down here. This is all close quarters. Get your ass up on the roof and buy us some time.” Coleman started to leave, but Rapp grabbed him by the arm. “What did Mike say?”

  “He said he’ll get some shooters here as soon as is humanly possible.”

  “Call him back and tell him we’ll take anything. Get a Little Bird to give us an ammo drop and maybe a SAW or two.” Rapp glanced back at the front door. “Maybe some grenades, too.”

  “I’m on it.” Coleman had his phone out and was calling Nash again. “Call if you need help.”

  Rapp knew he’d be making no such call. He’d hold them off as long as he could and then, if he was still alive, he’d limp his way up to the roof. What a shitty way to die, Rapp thought to himself. All of the close calls he’d had and it was going to come down to being killed by men who were supposed to be his allies. He heard Stan Hurley’s gruff voice telling him to suck it up. Now was not the time to think about death unless it was the other guy’s mortality that you were focused on. Hurley was fond of saying that no matter how bad things got there was always a way out. Rapp clung to that idea, as there was an ebb in the volume of shots being fired-just a pop here and there instead of the sustained blister of rounds smacking into the building.